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flicking inside my mouth. Her body leaned into mine, and we were both responding, the first time I'd experienced a woman confident in her sexual appetite. She tugged me by the hand, and we walked to the outfield grass, still damp from the evening's sprinklers. Her hands were at my belt, and then I was in her mouth, arching my back, making noises, unsure of everything. She fought down my jeans and pulled her dress up to her waist and reached into her bag. "Here," she said. "Put this on."
    I struggled with the condom, trying to unroll it upside down at first, and with all the tugging and the slow burn of my mortification, I came. I felt myself flush, and I turned away and threw the thing and collapsed onto my back. She stroked my chest and leaned over me. Her perfume was too sweet, and her hair brushed my skin, raising goose bumps.
    "You have a really nice body," she said.
    "Didn't help me out much tonight, did it?"
    "It got you this far." She laughed. "That's one of the benefits to being seventeen."
    "What is?"
    "Wait five minutes and I'll show you."
    I did and she did, and I lasted at least twice as long. I lay back in shock and amazement, and she petted my face. She'd popped in some gum, and her breath smelled of watermelon. "You're a sweet boy," she said. And then she stood, stuffing her panties into her purse, tugging at her sundress. "I have to get home to my daughter. But come by the restaurant sometime."
    "I will," I said. And then, in case she hadn't heard me, "I will."
    I jogged home in a daze. At the side gate, I slipped off my shoes. Moving stealthily alongside the house, I checked my watch--2:18. My breath caught when I turned the corner.
    The back door was open.
    A rustling issued from inside. I was running, full of dread. I stumbled over the step but kept my feet and saw a dark form in the middle of the living room. I hit the light switch, and there Frank was, at the end of a short, bloody trail he'd scraped along the floorboards, propped against his armchair. Both hands pressed to the dark, glittering hole in his gut. He was trying to talk, but there was blood at his mouth and his features were jerking around and I could see steam rising from between his fingers. The Glock was a few feet to his right, an ejected casing beside it.
    The kitchen door leading to the garage was open, fresh air sucking through the rectangle of darkness past my face and out the open door at my back. Fear sent me into a scramble for the gun before I
    remembered I'd never shot before. I was crying and pleading and apologizing, trying to place the gun in Frank's hand so he could protect us, but he could no longer grip. Then I heard the garage's side door bang open, clapping against the outside wall I'd crept along moments before.
    Frank raised his hand, pointing limply to the circular key I'd left protruding from the alarm pad in the kitchen, and his lips wavered some more, and he choked out the word. "W . . . ? W-why?"
    His other hand went loose over the wound, and the blood streamed out, dark, so dark. The next thing I knew, I was cradling him, my hands over the entry wound. I was sobbing so hard that his face was a smear, but I could see he was looking up at me with shock and bewilderment, and one of his feet was ticking back and forth, and then he wasn't looking at anything anymore.

    Chapter 6
    My head swam with nightmare images dredged from a thick slumber. I grasped for my timeworn mantra: You 're not seventeen anymore. You 're safe now.
    My memory clicked, and my eyes flew open.
    The nurse's face resolved from the bleached white of the room. Blond, pinched waist, clipboard--the whole nine. I was naked, it seemed, under a papery hospital gown.
    "The agents told me what you did," the nurse said, "and I just want to thank you."
    I squinted into the sudden bright. "How did I get. . . ?"
    "Do you know your name?"
    "Nick Horrigan."
    "What month is it?"
    "September."
    "Who's the president of the United States?"
    "Andrew Bilton."